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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889990">didymus</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/borevidal/pseuds/borevidal'>borevidal</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-typical allusions to violence, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, PWP without Porn, Season/Series 02, Seduction, just way too many feelings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:20:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889990</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/borevidal/pseuds/borevidal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“If I don’t put a stop to this, you’re going to blow me,” Will says.</p>
<p>“What response does that possibility evoke?” Hannibal asks. </p>
<p>**</p>
<p>One-shot set during the second half of season 2, in which Will's metaphorical seduction becomes a literal one. Porn without much plot but with very many feelings and without too much porn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>didymus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“If I don’t put a stop to this, you’re going to blow me,” Will says.</p>
<p>“What response does that possibility evoke?” Hannibal asks. </p>
<p> “I think you can <em>see</em> what response that possibility evokes,” Will snaps, because Hannibal can. Hannibal is on his knees in front of him on his expensive office carpet. He has a direct line of sight to exactly what Will’s response is.</p>
<p>“Your physical response, yes,” Hannibal says, deadpan, deliberately averting his eyes, looking upwards to catch Will’s. “But there are other responses as well.”</p>
<p>Will can’t help catching his eyes; he hates how aroused it is making him, the sight of Hannibal like <em>this</em>, trying to look plausibly indifferent, not quite succeeding. The idea that this, too, is shared between them. Okay, so stop it, he thinks. Too late, a voice says. He knows already. You both know. But that’s the whole ballgame, Will thinks, the difference between knowing what you both want and – doing it. “Why?” Will asks, suddenly. The word comes out unsteady, two different pitches.</p>
<p>Hannibal cocks his head to the side. The impact of the gesture in this context is curiously suggestive.</p>
<p>“Why offer the possibility?” Will asks. It feels better to keep talking than to stand there transfixed by Hannibal’s python gaze.  </p>
<p>“I believe that curiosity should be indulged,” Hannibal says, smoothly, almost guilelessly. “And I am willing to indulge you.”</p>
<p>Will shouldn’t laugh. It bubbles out of him in spite of himself. Hannibal looks almost affronted. Hannibal seems to think he is executing this perfectly, driving smoothly, inconspicuously, and with flawless control—but he is on the wrong side of the street. There is something almost touching in the fact that he seems to consider himself the seducer in this scenario. Even Will can't dissemble that far. “Please,” Will says. “Don’t insult me. Let’s not pretend this isn’t for your own benefit.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps it is for our mutual benefit,” Hannibal says, dispassionately. “Certain birds of the Nile—”</p>
<p>“Shut up,” Will says. He can feel Hannibal go absolutely still. He wishes he could hide what this does to him. He can feel Hannibal looking up at him; he tries not to look back. He doesn’t succeed. He hates himself for not succeeding; Hannibal’s eyes are exactly the way he would have imagined them, a little amused, strangely hopeful, trying to mask the hope as something else, something more like triumph. It is the ill-concealed hope that decides him. “All right,” he says, and touches Hannibal – it is almost terrifying to touch him with tenderness, to trace a finger over his forehead – “Indulge yourself.” It feels like a dickish thing to say; he loathes himself for wanting to say it, the complicated tangle of wanting and seeing and acknowledging that it brings. He knows Hannibal <em>wants</em> more than he wants to let on. That knowledge is a kind of power. But Hannibal can see that he enjoys having that power; Hannibal feels smug and indulgent at letting him wield it; and – he hates that they are both getting off on this in this specific way; he hates that they are both right about each other. He hates that the further into this thicket he stumbles the more the thought recurs that this could be perfect, if he would let it; that the further into the dark he wades the harder it is to shake the sensation of being entirely seen. Then Hannibal’s mouth is on him. He tries to think less.</p>
<p>He allows himself to avert his gaze from Hannibal’s, let his head tilt back, shut his eyes. But with his eyes shut he cannot help picturing what Hannibal must look like, and imagining it is somehow worse than seeing it. It feels more intimate that all the images of what Hannibal is doing are what his own mind is deliberately conjuring; that it is so easy for him to make Hannibal suck him off in the theater of his own brain; that he has studied Hannibal closely enough, before, to have an idea of how his face would look in this context. He opens his eyes. He can feel Hannibal smile up at him, the tightening of his mouth; he smiles back. He knows both their smiles look predatory, matched. There are no mirrors here; Hannibal’s eyes are enough, the greedy, hopeful light in them. Hannibal is clever with his mouth; sloppier than Will would have predicted. Still, he looks infuriatingly as Will had imagined. Will is not sure which thought is worse: that he simply knows Hannibal so intimately that there could be no surprise, or that Hannibal has guessed what he wants and is giving it to him, deliberately.</p>
<p>Hannibal pulls back. “Tell me what you want,” he says. His voice is a surprise – breathless, lewd. “Or, if you would prefer, take what you want.”</p>
<p>“Are you asking me to fuck your face?” Will asks, because he cannot avoid twisting the knife.</p>
<p>“If that is what you desire,” Hannibal breathes, eyes unfocused.</p>
<p>“You’re not very subtle, Dr. Lecter,” Will says. “You want so many crude things.” He fists a hand in Hannibal’s hair, deliberately tousling it. He notes how Hannibal’s eyes flick upwards at the gesture, with a kind of giddy disbelief, as though this is something Hannibal has pictured too. “And I’m going to give them to you.” He hates the thrill of power that courses through him at this; he hates that Hannibal is the one goading this out of him; he hates it the way he hated feeling Randall Tier’s face pulp to blood beneath his knuckles, hates knowing that it feels <em>natural. </em>That he <em>likes </em>it.</p>
<p>“Magnanimous of you,” Hannibal says, dry, but his eyes are wide and dark and alive with excitement.</p>
<p>“Is this the way you imagined it?” Will asks, because if he is going to be tormented with this knowledge of having thought this before then he will be certain he is not alone in hell. He lets two fingers slide down the back of Hannibal’s head to hold him in place; it feels like a caress; maybe it is one. “Or are you still not convinced that this is real? Doubting Thomas still doubting with his -- finger – in the wound?”</p>
<p>He can tell Hannibal wants to make a rejoinder; he refuses to let him. If he had to guess, Hannibal would say, <em>‘So it’s real</em>?’ and Will would not have an answer. Instead he begins to thrust, speeding up his pace so that Hannibal is gagging; he tries to halt but Hannibal reaches up and clasps his hand more firmly in place; he does not want to be spared. The gesture almost undoes him. They freeze there for a moment, like an obscene sculpture, eyes locked on one another, his fingers twisted in Hannibal’s hair and Hannibal’s hand pressed to his. Is there going to be anything you won't do to me, he thinks, wildly. Is there going to be anything you won't let me do? He feels flayed open, like they’re touching parts of each other that are never meant even to see light, let alone be touched. He needs to think. He needs to stop thinking. He feels hideously, horribly exposed and impossibly aroused by the thought that someone is seeing him so exposed. Not <em>someone</em>, if he is honest with himself. Hannibal.</p>
<p>“God,” Will says, low, some amusement creeping into it. He sounds as breathless as Hannibal, as destroyed. “How long have you known <em>this</em> was what you wanted from me?”</p>
<p>Hannibal cocks his head thoughtfully. Somehow it’s deadpan. Will <em>wants</em> him, unspeakably. It’s horrible. He starts thrusting again in earnest and Hannibal is ready for him, breathing through his nose like a horse. It’s messy. Hannibal’s eyes are watering; his nose is running. Hannibal shuts his eyes and takes it, deliberately meek, like a god letting himself be pelted with pebbles. </p>
<p>“That’s good, Hannibal,” Will says. Hannibal opens his eyes and looks up at him, lust-fogged gaze still managing to register amusement and wonder and – something else, something terrifying, more than wonder; Hell, Will thinks, why is it in <em>this </em>circumstance that someone looks at me like <em>that</em>, why is it after killing, after doing things I should never have <em>wanted </em>to do, let alone have actually <em>done</em> that someone <em>wants </em>me like this – and he is coming; he tastes something hot and bitter in his own mouth and realizes he’s bitten so hard on his own cheek that he’s drawn blood.</p>
<p>His legs are unsteady. He lets go of Hannibal, sinks to the floor next to him. “Are you—” he starts; his throat is dry; his voice cracks. “Can I—”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I anticipated you,” Hannibal says. His swollen, red mouth tries to twitch upwards at the corner. He looks exquisitely used, radiant with it. “Perhaps on another occasion.”</p>
<p>Will reaches for him before he can think any further, erect any more words between them. He pulls his face in for a kiss; it starts bruising and fierce and possessive, a claim, a stake in the ground. It never quite becomes sweet. It stings a little when Hannibal’s tongue finds the raw patch where he bit down. He can taste himself in Hannibal’s mouth. He feels as though he has broken out of his skin for a moment and that this the part of him that is kissing Hannibal; that his skin is looking on, appalled. He should be infuriated by every hunger that Hannibal has kindled in him; Hannibal should not be able to fumble in the dark and find all his light-switches. But it is hard to extinguish a certain terrible elation that someone has found them. He is not in the dark alone.</p>
<p>He pulls back and dares to look at Hannibal. Hannibal touches his own lip, thoughtfully.</p>
<p>“Reach hither thy finger and behold my hand, and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side, and do not doubt, but believe,” Hannibal says.</p>
<p>“Jesus Christ,” Will says, deliberate twist of his mouth. Hannibal rolls his eyes, amused. Will wonders how long they can sit here, companionably, in this hollow of time, before reality will start clawing at them again and the forts will go back up, and he will have to start extricating truths from lies and disentangling the parts that are only himself from where he and Hannibal have allowed themselves to be knotted together. Before he will have to crawl back into his skin and crawl back to Jack and all the bare rubbed-raw corners of himself will ache. He cannot shake the thought that it will be somewhat lonely.</p>
<p>“The king of Macedonia, Alexander the Great,” Hannibal says, finally, breaking the silence, “was tasked with untangling the famed Gordian Knot. Many had attempted the knot; none had succeeded. Alexander discovered a novel solution.”</p>
<p>“He cut it with his sword,” Will says. Hannibal looks at him, knowing, sad perhaps. He wants to open his mouth again and say that he was just thinking of impossible tangles; instead he lets his eyes say it.</p>
<p>“Some knots cannot be untangled, only cut,” Hannibal says.</p>
<p>“Poor knots,” Will says. It feels too late to kiss Hannibal again; words have sprung up between them, a bristling thicket of them, and it is harder to see one another through them. But he reaches over and touches Hannibal’s lip, just to memorize it with his fingers too. Hannibal looks slightly startled. “But that assumes,” Will says.</p>
<p>“Assumes, Will?” The hope in Hannibal’s eyes is blatant, so blatant Will is thrown.</p>
<p>“That assumes they need to be untangled,” Will says. He should regret saying it. He will regret saying it. He doesn’t, yet. He keeps looking at Hannibal, straight at him, daring him not to look back. But Hannibal looks back. For as long as they look at each other there are no doubts at all. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>unbeta'ed, any errors and ill-chosen, needlessly pretentious Greek titles are my own! </p>
<p>This is my first work in this fandom! Hello!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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